Bookshelves

Her shoulders were heavy, and her back hunched

as if she carried the weight of the world.

She wore wide hips, though she had not yet bared a child or two.

Her left hand was naked and cold,

impatiently waiting to hold a covenant of love.

She still hadn’t figured out

the motions. There were spasms of feelings

that made her abashed and ashamed;

Probably due to too many failed relationships she could have

avoided, if only she had listened.

The awareness and the judgment of her battered

heart, the questions she was afraid to ask God,

the space created by loneliness and the distance

between who she thought she was and who she really was,

she carried them.

But she refused to tuck them

away like books collecting dust

on bookshelves.

© 2015 Christina Jackson

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